Heartache
by Nancybug
Summary: The shimigami have quite possibly the hardest job in the world, they must coldly collect souls of the dying. Yet, one wonders if the job sometimes has detrimental effects to the mental health of the shinigami. Inspired by a conversation on .
1. Chapter 1

Heartbreak

A shinigami must obey the rules. Most of the rules were rather simple and much like any other job's. A shinigami had to be punctual, had to work quickly and coldly, without a smile. He had to reap the souls on the list assigned to him. But sometimes, it was difficult to determine who suffered more; the victim, or the shinigami.

William T. Spears sighed almost inaudibly as he gazed at the stack of papers on his desk. It was late and he was tired. He wanted nothing more than to go home, shower, and read a good book before bed. However, this particular assignment was not one that he looked forward to. He stood and paced around his silent office, trying to decide which of his subordinates would have to commit this ghastly deed.

The soul in question had to be reaped by morning, for a sickness had claimed the body. She would die and her soul collected and sorted, just like all the others. The problem was in that she was only a child, of five years old. Had she been older, there would have been no question. The assignment would have been given to whichever shinigami was not already working on another. For even though it was their jobs, not one of his employees ever liked taking a child's soul.

As he paced, listening to to quiet steady tapping of his shoes on the hard floor, he thought about his dilemma. Alan Humphries was entirely out of the question, for the Thorns of Death had weakened him again and he was at home, recovering. Eric Slingby had taken a few personal days off, to help take care of his sick friend. Even though William was irritated by Eric's lack of work ethic, he respected their friendship and the constant love and patience that went into it.

He felt a shudder rising from deep within him, and suppressed it. He was a supervisor, dammit. This was part of his job. His employees had to learn to get over their weaknesses. All humans die eventually and it was their job to collect the souls. But still, even William, with his cold demeanor, couldn't help but feel guilty when he saw the look in their eyes when they returned from an assignment like this. Each one of them, even the normally loud and obnoxious Grell Sutcliff, would come in, plop their report on his desk silently and walk out, without a word.

Hm, he thought, perhaps he could send Ronald Knox out on this assignment. The reaper already drowned himself in women and booze, maybe it wouldn't make a lasting impact. He'd likely drink and have sex until he forgot all about it. Then, with a pang of regret, William remembered that he had sent the young man on an opium-overdose case.

Which meant that there was only one option left. He would have to send Grell Sutcliff on this most wretched of cases. The redhead was definitely not his first choice, but he was the only one available. William suddenly hated being short-staffed with a renewed vigor. If the East London Division had as many shinigami working for it as the other divisions, he could easily send some peon out to deal with it, without having to deal with the guilt, but that was not the case.

William went back to his desk and grabbed the assignment quickly, ready to get this over with. He opened the door to the office and proceeded down the dim halls. It was late, and most of the others had gone home already. He knew that Grell was still on the clock, most likely goofing off or flirting with the new recruits, when he was supposed to be finishing his late reports. Honestly, why couldn't that dense idiot just do his job?

He came to Grell's office. The moron had gotten an office only because he distracted the others from their work and because he had been on the job for longer than many of the others. William lightly rapped on Grell's closed office door, but heard nothing for a response. He leaned closer and listened carefully. Was Grell even in there? Trying the doorknob, he found that it was unlocked and he opened it carefully.

Grell's office was unusual to say the least, he was rather clean and tidy, but insisted on keeping little trinkets scattered about. He had furnished the office almost entirely in red, much to William's dismay, but he had paid for it himself, so it had no impact on the budget at least. He found the redhead asleep behind his desk, leaning his head over the back of the chair, snoring quietly, a stack of unfinished reports in front of him. William resisted the urge to shove him out of the chair and looked down at the paperwork. At least he was trying to finish it, Will thought, before picking up one report and seeing his own name written in red pen, with a big heart doodled around it. The supervisor felt his eye twitch in annoyance and proceeded to shove Grell out of his chair and onto the floor with a thump.

"Ow! What the hell?" the reaper whined, rubbing his hurt backside.

"Grell Sutcliff, you have a new assignment." Will began.

Grell jumped up and threw his arms around William. "Oh, Will~! I was just having the best dream. You and I were on safari in Africa, watching the lions and.."

"It will never happen." he replied quickly, then changed the subject back to work. "You must complete this assignment by five in the morning. It shouldn't take long."

Grell pouted as the paper was shoved in his face. "You shouldn't work a lady so hard. I need my beauty sleep, you know."

"Sleeping on the clock is not permitted. Get to work." the dark haired man said simply, and turned, secretly wanting to leave before Grell read the assignment.

Grell took the paper reluctantly and began to read it, his green eyes widening in dismay.

"But Will..." the reaper's normally cheerful voice had taken a rather serious tone.

"What is it?" Will asked, already knowing what the problem was, without turning around.

"I...I can't do this one. She's...she's still a baby." Grell stammered a little, hoping his heartless boss would take pity.

"You are the only one available. Ronald Knox is busy with another mission. Alan Humphries is ill and Eric Slingby has taken a couple of personal days off." William said, staring into nothingness.

"But, please Will, please, I don't want to do this one." the redhead begged, his gloved hand on William's shoulder.

"It needs to be completed by five." William said coldly, looking at his subordinate.

The reaper's green eyes were filled with pain, and nothing, not even his gaudy red glasses, would hide that. Will clenched his fist, hoping he could stand his ground against the pathetic pleas of his employee. Grell looked down, his bangs hiding much of his face, knowing he couldn't weasel out of it.

"Alright, Will." his voice, somber and quiet. "I'll have the report on your desk in the morning."

"Good. I'm going home for the night. You may go home after you finish."

Grell's hands hung helplessly at his sides and he nodded without a word. William couldn't bear to see him like this, and left the office quickly, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing in the still air.

William had always been a serious man, his job and his duties always coming first. It was part of the job, he reminded himself. But he still didn't like having to force the others to do such horrible things. William quietly returned to his office, filed away the paperwork for the night and locked up, wondering if he would see that report from Grell on his desk in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Grell Sutcliffe's high heels clacked noisily on the dark paved streets of East London. He'd never been very stealth with his love for all things gaudy and his rather loud choice of a deathscythe, the chainsaw. However, on nights like this, he almost wished that he had chosen a less painful and bloody weapon. He finally understood why William had chosen the pruning pole. It was quiet, quick and clean.

The streets of London were unsavory after dark, full of muggers and prostitutes. The prostitutes all were a little more careful these days, afraid of the bloodthirsty Jack the Ripper, who had never been caught, but rather had vanished into the night. It was a poor district, full of dirt and crime, but the people were at least entertaining to look at as he strode through the back alleys. A drunken sot there, a beggar here, a street-walker flashing her goods.

The flamboyant shinigami got more than one strange look from the humans here, but no one dared say a word to a chainsaw wielding psychopath with shark teeth. Normally he would flash them a wicked smile as he passed, just for his own amusement, but tonight, he just wasn't in the mood to grin. For once, his mind was on his job.

Grell came to the back entrance of a small flat tucked away in the corner. He stood at the door and took a deep breath. He really hated reaping children. It was part of the job, of course, but he couldn't help but feel guilty at times. Reaping a man, a woman, even a teenager was different. They'd had time to live, time to experience love, hate, pain and sorrow. They'd had a chance to sin, a chance to ruin their lives. For some, death was even valued as a release from the burdens of life. A young child, who barely had time to form cognitive thought, was so much harder. This was the kind of night that shinigami loathed.

Silently trying the doorknob, he discovered it was locked, which was not unusual, especially in this district. He pouted, and pulled a hairpin out that he always kept tucked behind his ear for situations like this. He tenderly leaned his deathscythe against the cold stone wall and set to work on the lock. It gave easily under his skilled touch. Reclaiming his beloved chainsaw, he opened the door as quietly as possible and stepped into the musty room.

It smelled of sickness in there, a faintly acrid, distinctly human smell, that a human nose couldn't quite pick up. The single roomed apartment was dimly lit by a flickering candle, burning on a rickety box. Next to the box, was a straw-stuffed mat, serving as a bed for a small child. Grell could not see the child yet, for she was buried in a threadbare blanket. He heard her cough and he stopped in his tracks.

"Mommy?" a small hoarse voice came from under the blanket, and a tiny blonde haired head poked out.

Grell felt a lump forming in his throat, which he silently struggled to swallow. He wondered if he should respond. Maybe if he stayed quiet, he foolishly hoped that maybe she would roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, the little girl struggled to sit up and looked directly at him. Her face was pale and drawn, thinner than any child should be, and her eyes were dark with the illness. She would have been a beautiful girl, had her small body not been affected so.

"Who are you? My mommy is working right now. You have to come back in the morning.'' she softly said.

The reaper's face went pale. He felt nauseous and began to sweat. He cursed over and over in his head, before finally deciding to respond.

"I'm not here for your mother. I'm here for you." he said, barely over a whisper, which was odd for the normally rambunctious shinigami.

"Oh. You must be Death, then." she sighed.

"What?" Grell's jaw dropped. How would she know that?

"My mommy told me that Death would come to claim me soon. So, you must be Death."

The reaper nodded, slowly, wishing he could have gotten a job in the Glasses Division instead of Dispatch.

He approached the little girl and knelt next to her, avoiding her gaze. "When I'm done, you won't hurt anymore. You won't be sick anymore."

"I know. Go ahead." she lay down again, still watching him carefully.

"Close your eyes." he responded, standing up again, his chainsaw gripped tightly. "And don't open them."

She obeyed, and Grell started up his chainsaw, its motor roaring ferociously in the quiet night. He held it over her body and aimed for her chest, hoping to make this as quick as possible, then squeezed his vibrant eyes shut. As the blade and its chain plunged into her body, Grell felt a splatter of warm blood on his face, gentle as a kiss. He heaved a little, disgusted with himself, as he cut the power on his scythe.

The shinigami stood for a moment, fighting his own revulsion and finally looked down at his work. Her poor tiny body was now just a mess of blanket and bedclothes, clotted with gore. He watched as the Cinematic Record began to play, showing her life, from the moment she'd been born.

He watched as her father left, shortly after her birth, claiming that she was not his child, watched as the girl's mother struggled to feed her child by turning to prostitution. He saw the girl begin her descent into sickness, with an inconspicuous cough. The whole record only took a few minutes, because her life had been so short. She'd never even been outside this ancient dirty district. Although, Grell wished he could save her, he knew the rules and this was not one he could break. The only way a person could be exempt from death, was if their life would bring about a greater good for many others. Even if she lived, her life would be nothing but suffering and scavenging, a constant struggle for food and warmth. Her life or death would have no impact on anyone but her mother.

When the judgment was complete, he took a deep breath and was startled to discover that he'd been crying, his tears mixed with the blood on his cheeks. All that was left was the paperwork. Grell wiped his face off on a clean corner of the girl's blanket and left quickly, his heart aching with odd feelings.

It never seemed to get any easier, Grell thought when he was back at his messy little desk, filling out a lengthy form with his favorite red pen. He usually loved his job, but there were some nights that he would do anything not to have that duty. Normally, after reaping a soul, Grell would run off and forget all about his paperwork, in pursuit of love or lust, whichever came first, but this was the kind of reaping he just wanted out of his mind and off his list. He quickly filled out the form, taking some comfort in the familiarity of its neat little typed words. He worded his report much like a confession, knowing it wasn't really his choice, but feeling guilty nonetheless. It wasn't professional and it wasn't proper, but William understood, anyway. He would see the report on his desk in the morning, and probably make some offbeat comment about Sutcliffe finally being responsible, which would make Grell feel better, even if it was sarcasm. William would make it all better, with his calm and tidy demeanor, the one constant in Grell's ever turbulent world.


End file.
